Cheesy Potaters
by ChaosandMayhem
Summary: 'As fun as it would be to watch Lawrence convulse and die of food poisoning, Spy mused, his French heritage just couldn't let him do it.' A small, mindless tale of cross-culture culinary skills...or lack thereof. Oneshot!


This story has actually been floating around in my head for a while, and now I've finally fished it out. It was largely inspired by Belphegor's Hogan's Heroes fic "Soul Food"-and if you're a HH fan, you should definitely check out her fantastic work. Heck, even if you're not a Hogan's Heroes fan you should check out her work! And of course I need to extend a thanks to Tokyo Sunset for the beta work!

Hmmm...not much else to add but enjoy the semi-mindless oneshot!

**If I owned TF2, would I be wasting my time writing stupid fics?...yes. Yes I would.**

* * *

Cheesy Potaters

Clink. Clink. Clinkclink. Clack.

"Hmmm."

Scrape. Clinkclack.

"Ugh…"

Slish-slosh. Clank.

"Aha! There ya are, ya little beaut!"

Sniper reached into the very back of the refrigerator, wrapped his hand around an unassuming plastic container, and pulled it out with an air of triumph. He grinned down at the Tupperware, shutting the fridge door with one foot. Humming a happy little tune, he retrieved a clean fork and wandered over to the cupboard to find a bowl.

Once he found a nice red bowl, Sniper popped open the lid of the Tupperware. "Ah—ugh."

The stomach-churning smell of moldy cheese instantly clogged his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose as he studied the thick layer of green blocking him from his macaroni-and-cheese. Sniper sighed. Just his luck—the one thing he was in the mood to eat was the one thing in the fridge that was nearly inedible.

'Nearly' being the critical word, of course.

Sniper moved to the trash can and began to scrape the mold off of his lunch, resuming his whistling as he did so. Waste not, so they said, and besides he'd eaten far worse back when he was a tracker in the Outback.

He had just moved back to the counter and was about to move the relatively safe mac-n'-cheese into the bowl when an astonished voice stopped him:

"Nom de Dieu, Lawrence, please do not tell me you're actually going to eat that!"

Sniper sighed. He didn't have to turn around to know that Spy was standing stock-still behind him, cigarette in hand and wearing an expression of mixed horror and bemusement. "Yes, spook," Sniper scraped the gooey mess into his bowl, "I'm gonna eat this."

Spy muttered something in French, as Sniper expected, but oddly enough he didn't just walk away. Instead the Frenchman elected to lean against the counter, watching him with a cocked head. Sniper heaved a second sigh as he opened the microwave. "Wot d'ya want, spook?"

"I want to see you eat that." Spy sniffed. "I want to see if you can really do it."

Behind the aviators a pair of bright blue eyes rolled dramatically. "I wouldn't be here if it I weren't gonna eat it, now would I?"

"I also want to see you die of food poisoning."

"Well, good luck wif that," Sniper punched in thirty seconds into the microwave, standing back as the machine did its work, "I've got a strong stomach."

"Oui. And a complete lack of culture."

"Fancy nancy."

"Uncouth savage."

The machine beeped, and when Sniper popped the microwave open again Spy hacked dramatically at the smell of warmed-over, three-week-old cheese. "Oh, grow up," Sniper muttered, looking over his dish with a trained eye, "it's fine."

It was _not_ fine. It was awful. And every ounce of French inside Spy was screaming at him to knock that disgusting plate away from Sniper before the bushman did something stupid and actually ate it.

As fun as it would be to watch Lawrence convulse and die of food poisoning, Spy mused, his French heritage just couldn't let him do it.

_Bastard._

"All roight, spook, here we go—OI! Wotcha doin' wif me lunch?!" Sniper spun around in his seat, watching in horror as Spy, who had snatched the mac-n'-cheese right out from under his nose, dumped his lunch into the trash. "THAT WAS PERFECTLY GOOD FOOD, WANKAH!"

"It was not and you know it." Spy dusted his hands, a signal of a job well done. "Now sit there and let someone who actually appreciates fine cuisine do his job."

Sniper crossed his arms over his chest. "Damn Frenchies," he growled, "always stickin' their snooty noses in other people's business."

"If it were not for my snooty nose, bushman," Spy replied with a light tone as he scrounged around the kitchen, "you would be on the floor vomiting right now."

"An' I'm supposed ta thank ya fer that?"  
"Polite society demands that you do."

"Piss off."

"Hm. Close enough—ahah!" Spy had found the full bag of potatoes Engineer had bought at the general store earlier in the week. "Ah, I know exactly what to do with you, mes amis!"

"Wot are ya gonna do wif me?!"

Spy cut off Sniper's panicked tone with a wave of his hand. "I was talking to the _pommes de terre_, Lawrence, don't fret." Amused, his gaze flickered back to Sniper for an instant, watching as the Aussie relaxed back into his seat.

"Wot are ya makin'?" Sniper asked with a cautious tone, curious despite himself.

"Gratin dauphinois."

"…._the hell_?"

Spy sighed. "In the language of the Outback, I suppose you could call it a potato dish with cheese, although it's a bit more refined than that, I assure you—"

"Cheesy potaters."

"…Lawrence, did you listen to anything I just said—"

"A-yup. And yer makin' cheesy potaters."

Behind the balaclava a vein twitched in Spy's temple. "It is not _cheesy potaters_," he mimicked the Australian accent with a sneer, "it is gratin dauphinois."

Sniper rolled his eyes once more. "Why do Frenchies insist on makin' everything sound so fancy? Christ Almighty, just call it cheesy potaters, ya don't have to do it up with gratin dau-pin-ous-is-fus…whatever."

If Medic had been present, he would have been simultaneously fascinated and concerned with the rapid twitching Spy's right eye was now subject to. "Watch and learn, imbècile."

Sniper propped his boots up onto the table and lowered his hat over his eyes. "Wake me when yer done," he replied.

Spy had just retrieved the vegetable peeler from a drawer, and for an instant he contemplated whether or not stabbing Sniper in the neck with the instrument would be worth the trouble. He even twitched in the Aussie's direction a bit.

Apparently it wouldn't be worth it, and Spy took to peeling his potatoes, pretending the skin was the stupid Aussie's stupid smug smirk.

**….**

Napping, as it turned out, wasn't the easiest of tasks when Spy kept banging things around, humming some French tune as he slammed something down on the stove.

If Sniper had been a lesser man he would have jumped. But he didn't, deciding it was for the best to stay behind his hat, lest he kill Spy for being such a twit.

A faint, delicious smell wafted past his nose. Sniper felt his nose twitch a bit.

Nope. Not coming out from under the hat. He was an assassin with _principles_, dammit.

Spy hummed a bit more, opening the oven in order to peek at the small glass dish he had placed in there lovingly. He waved his hand a bit, bringing the scent of crispy potatoes to his nose. His mouth watered. "Lawrence, I 'ope you can smell that!"

"Nope."

"Your poker face is _terrible_."

"_Yer _terrible."

"Oh, very mature, _Lawrence_."

"Says the man prancin' 'round the kitchen, bangin' pots and pans everywhere!"

"I do not prance. And I was 'banging around' in order to cook you a decent meal…something you still 'ave not thanked me for."

"Oh, wot are ya gonna do? Go cry and write in yer diary 'bout it?"

"Non. I think I'll just go visit your maman!"

"OI! Leave me mum outta this!"

"Why? She obviously didn't teach you 'ow to fend for yourself—ARGH!"

It would have escalated into a full-on fistfight in the mess hall right then and there if a certain Bostonian didn't have such excellent timing.

Scout poked his head through the double-doors, sniffing the air. "Yo guys, what smells so good—uh, should I give yous two a moment or somethin'?"

Sniper growled something inaudible. He was standing, having lunged out of his chair and grabbed Spy by the collar. "Stay here, boy. Ya mighta just saved the spook's life."

"Lawrence," Spy said sternly, "put me down."

Sure enough, Sniper's grip on Spy's suit was so firm that the Frenchman was actually dangling in the air, the tips of his shoes just scraping the floor. "Insult me mum again," Sniper snarled as he relinquished his grip on Spy, "and I will break ya in half."

"Yeah, spook, ya should know better than ta insult a guy's ma." Scout had decided it was safe enough to fully enter into the mess hall, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he did so. "So…what smells so good?"

"Cheesy potaters." Sniper jerked a thumb in Spy's direction. "Spook made 'em."

"_Gratin_," Spy growled through gritted teeth, "_dauphinois_."

"Well…whatevah the hell ya callin' it, can I try some?" Scout edged closer to the stove, eyes wide with hope.

Spy checked his watch. "Oui. The dish should be finished in a little bit."

"Sweeeeeet! Y'know spook, sometimes ya are the man!" Scout flopped himself down in the chair previously occupied by Sniper while the Aussie eased back against the table with his arms folded over his chest.

He was peering at Spy over his aviators, and Spy kept shooting him smug looks. Scout, who was actually better at reading the atmosphere than most gave him credit for, tensed up a bit, ready to act as a physical barrier if it came to blows.

"Bloody 'ell, wot is the spook makin' now?" Demoman appeared right on cue, empty bottle of Scrumpy dangling from his fingertips. "Better be something good, 'cause I'm starving."

Scout did his best to make it look like he wasn't gesticulating wildly for the Scot to sit next to him in case of imminent patience failure. He also withheld a sigh of relief when Demoman complied.

"I made gratin dauphinois." Spy explained, even as he kept his expectant eyes on Sniper.

Puzzled, Demoman glanced at Sniper for an explanation. The Aussie scowled. "He made cheesy taters. Jus' makin' 'em sound all fancy and high-to-do like a snob."

"And you insist on dumbing down my delicious dish to make it sound like a bland plebian entrée!"

"Plebian?!"

"It means low—"

"I know wot it means, wankah!"

"Excellent. So you know that you fit the definition quite well—"

Scout scrambled up out of his chair as Sniper lunged for Spy once more. "OH SHIT DEMO GRAB 'EM!"

**….**

Not too far away, Engineer was doing what an Engineer did best.

"And that, my good Pyro," the Texan stated with an air of triumph, "is how you make a card tower."

He was building things.

Pyro walked around the card tower with its head tilted to the side. "Mmrpft…"

"It's okay?!" Engineer huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, "Y'all just jealous that you can't build one as nice as mine." He watched with narrowed eyes as Pyro gingerly touched one of the cards with a gloved hand. "If you knock it over—"

"GREASE MONKEY!"

The door to Engineer's workshop was ungraciously kicked open. That, combined with the force of Soldier's shout, toppled the card tower right over.

A pained little noise escaped Engineer and he stared at his once-proud pile of cards for a moment before turning around to glare at Soldier. "This better be good."

"Your assistance is needed at once!"

"What—why? Don't tell me you broke the microwave again!"

"No—"

Whatever explanation Soldier had in mind was cut off by a long, drawn-out cry of "WANKAAAAAAH!" and several explosive French swears. Soldier shrugged and pointed down the corridor towards the mess hall. "That's why. Fix it."

"Fix it," Engineer muttered as he shoved past Soldier, "fix it. Sure, let ol' Engineer fix it, s'not like he has anything better to do than separate two psychotic manchildren. Oh, that Engie, he solves problems. Even the impractical ones like Down Under and Spah…"

He continued his muttered rant of self-pity all the way to the mess hall, not even noticing Pyro and Soldier on his heels. Both American and Whatever were listening closely to Engineer's rant, occasionally exchanging glances of concern.

Engineer threw the doors to the mess hall open with a scowl. He marched straight into the pandemonium, shoved back the Scout who was currently screaming at Sniper to rip Spy's head off, past Demoman and Heavy, who were currently betting on how long it would take for someone to break a bone, and pushed Medic out of the way as the red-faced German bellowed at the two rolling around the floor.

Engineer's calloused hands latched themselves onto Spy, picked the Frenchman up, and physically threw him several feet away from Sniper.

The silence was instantaneous and deafening.

"You two," Engineer's gaze shot back and forth between the offending parties, and suddenly there was no shame in cowering before the short Texan, "are a special kinda _stupid_, y'know that?" He folded his arms over his chest. "Now, I don't care what this whole fight was about, and I don't care who started it," his voice entered into a low growl as Sniper started to protest, "but I'm endin' it here and now. Y'all need to start actin' your age…or at least get your tempers under control."

There was a reason Engineer was always called in to solve problems.

_Ding._

"Ah," Spy recovered with a startling swiftness, springing up from the floor and dusting his suit off, "my dish is ready. Gentlemen," his eyes roved around the room, yet mysteriously failed to land on Sniper, "would anyone care to sample a piece?"

Scout nodded eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, Frenchie, I wanna try some!"

"What did you make, Spah?" Engineer asked suspiciously, still acting as a physical barrier between the Frenchman and Sniper.

"Gratin dauphinois." Spy replied coolly. He was waiting for Sniper's "cheesy taters" line, but it didn't come. The Aussie was far too preoccupied with his bloodied and steadily swelling lip to comment.

Engineer's eyebrows flew into his hardhat. "No kidding? My Mèmè used to make gratin all the time!" He eased up a bit. "I bet yours won't taste anything like hers, though."

"Let's test that hypothesis, tinkerer."

Spy had passed the Engineer test, and one by one the others relaxed, some even joining in the request to try Spy's gratin, curious to see if the stereotypes about French culinary skills held any truth.

With the air of a loving mother Spy pulled his dish out of the oven, admiring the bubbling cheese and slightly burnt edges. "Gentlemen," he purred, "lunch is served."

"I'm ready, I'm ready!" From out of nowhere Scout produced a knife and a fork, licking his chops wolfishly. "C'mon spook, I'm starving!"

A chorus of agreements echoed through the room and soon the rest of the team was crowding around Spy and his delicious-smelling dish. All, that is, save Sniper, who staggered to his feet, wiped a dribble of blood from his chin, and left the mess hall. Spy glared after him for a moment before turning back to his starving brood of teammates. "Soldier! One piece at a time!"

**…**

In hindsight, drinking several cups of coffee before bed probably hadn't been the best of ideas. The excess caffeine combined with the howling of a brewing storm kept him wide-awake and utterly bored.

Spy flipped through a mystery book he had borrowed from Pyro, disinterested in Nancy Drew's latest exploits. He tossed the book over his shoulder, ignoring the clatter it made as it hit the floor. Bored and yet unwilling to relieve that boredom, Spy got up from his bed and meandered over the small window.

A brilliant flash of lightening in the distance caught his eye and Spy took a step back away from the window, frowning as a growl of thunder shook the base. _Great_. It was probably going to rain all day tomorrow, which meant he was going to be trapped inside with the entirety of his idiot team.

Well, almost the entirety.

After the altercation in the kitchen Sniper had holed himself up in his van, and no amount of gentle cajoling from Engineer or jeers from Scout were enough to budge him. Personally Spy assumed he was just sulking for the sake of sulking. Lawrence Mundy was a grown man, he could get over…whatever it was he was sulking about.

What exactly had sparked the argument?

The wind picked up again, and Spy found himself watching with interest as Sniper's parked van shook a bit. No, wait, that was just the Aussie banging around in there. And then Sniper threw open the van door and barged out in a stained wifebeater and patched pajama pants. With a pace Soldier would have admired, he marched across the courtyard and into the base.

Curiosity killed cats, not Spies, and with that infallible logic Spy found himself creeping downstairs, cloaked and hidden. He followed the sound of clattering kitchenware into the mess hall, slipping through the double doors unnoticed.

Sniper was standing expectantly in front of the microwave, arms folded across his chest and glaring daggers at the dish currently being heated up.

Spy's nose twitched a bit as a familiar smell wafted through the room. The gratin! Grinning smugly, he settled back against the wall, confident in his culinary abilities.

Sniper, however, didn't seem to be all that impressed. He was muttering wildly under his breath about 'damn spook' and 'can't cook worth a damn' and 's'just the only thing in the fridge, that's all'.

_Oh, come off it, Lawrence_. Spy slipped down the wall and pulled his knees to his chest, entirely comfortable. _Admit it. You were wrong_.

Two minutes later Sniper was sitting at one of the tables, fork hovering over the lukewarm gratin. He looked terribly conflicted, as if someone had just paid him twenty dollars to kick a cat. Spy twitched a bit in impatience.

Finally Sniper dug his fork in, pulled back with a gooey mass of potatoes, and shoved the leftover dish into his mouth.

_Crass. Absolutely crass_._ Don't they know anything about manners in the merry old land of Oz?_

Nevertheless Spy found himself chewing on the inside of his cheek in anticipation, watching as Sniper ate, expressions flitting from embarrassment to annoyance to exasperation and finally what looked to be acceptance. He gulped the rest of his full plate down in an instant.

When the plate was empty and his starving stomach satisfied, Sniper sat back with a thoughtful expression, occasionally tilting his head one way or the other as he listened to the sound of the approaching storm. At long last, with the air of a man most forlorn, he stood, dumped the empty plate into the sink, and turned to address the empty room, "Ya did all roight, spook. Not half-bad."

Spy jumped, staring at Sniper in shock. What?! He'd been so quiet, so careful—

Sniper cleared his throat. "Yeah, that outta work."

_Oh_.

Spy withheld a sigh of relief and stood very carefully before following Sniper as the Aussie exited the mess hall—and then nearly bumped into the oaf when he stopped short. Judging by the twisted expression on face, Sniper was considering something intently.

Spy hoped he didn't hurt himself trying to do all that thinking.

After another moment of thought Sniper continued on—but not to his van. Instead he walked down the long corridor towards the phone.

For a man whose career relied on his ability to deduce situations quickly, Spy was utterly and completely confused. Who the hell would Lawrence be calling at such a ridiculous hour?

Burning with curiosity, he hovered close to Sniper as the Aussie dialed a number, staring up at the blank wall as he did so. Whoever was on the other end took their own sweet time picking up, but finally Sniper straightened with an exclamation of: "Hullo, Mum!"

Spy's eyes went wide. _What_.

"Oh, nothing much. Jus' callin' ta see how ya were."

_Bullshit, Lawrence._

"Well…actually…I was wonderin' if ya still had yer old Lamington recipe around. I wanna making it."

_Oh good God._

"Eh, no special reason. M'just feelin' a little homesick, y'know? Thought it might cheer me up a bit…"

A pause.

"No Mum. There's no special lady friend ta share it with."

A second, slightly longer pause.

"MUM! Look, argh, I ain't callin' ta discuss me love life. I just want the Lamington recipe, okay?"

It took every ounce of Spy's admittedly poor self-control not to burst out laughing. As it stood, he was forced to bite down on his hand to keep his obnoxious giggles under control. Fortunately Sniper was concentrating too intently on whatever his mother was saying to notice.

With the triumphant smirk of the cat who just ate a whole flock of canaries, Spy slipped back down the hall and into the night.

**….**

"Eat it and weep!"

"I might just." Spy retorted flatly, taking the seat Sniper gestured to. The Aussie grinned and set a plate of Lamington squares down in front of his teammate.

Lamington, as it turned out, was simply a sponge cake dipped in chocolate and then rolled generously in shreds of coconut. Spy took a moment to wonder where the hell Sniper had gotten his hands on chocolate icing and coconut in the middle of the desert before poking the Lamington experimentally. "You know, I'm not altogether that fond of coconut."

Sniper sat down across from him, eyebrows arched. "Give it a try."

Spy pushed the morsel around on his plate a minute more. "Eh, I'm not all that hungry right now, thank you—" He stopped short at the look Sniper was giving him and rolled his eyes. "_Very well_." He scooped up a bit of the spongy cake onto his fork, eyed it with a critical eye, and gingerly put the foodstuff on the tip of his tongue.

His first impression was simple: too much coconut.

His second impression was slightly more complex.

Mainly because he hadn't been expecting it at all.

_Sniper could cook_.

He eyed the desperately-trying-not-to-look-too-eager Sniper as he chewed and swallowed. "I suppose I was mistaken, bushman," he sniffed as he took another bite of the Lamington, "it seems you are not _completely_ 'elpless."

Sniper smirked. "And yer cheesy taters weren't all _that_ bad, if m'honest."

"Gratin."

"Cheesy taters."

"_Gratin_."

"Cheesy taters!"

"GRATIN!"

"TATERS!"

In the end Sniper lost a tooth and Spy sported a very impressive shiner, but as far as they were concerned it was worth it.

* * *

I really want to try making Lamington one day. Not much else to add besides that. :L

See you around, guys! Thanks for reading!

~Chaos


End file.
